


Just a Dream

by FlirtyFroggy



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Other, Vignette, gen-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horatio is sleepless and lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for creepy but the angst managed to worm its way in instead. I had no idea when or where this was meant to be taking place when I wrote it, but now I like to think of it as being somewhere between between Retribution and Loyalty. Written for Halloween 2008, originally posted to my LJ March 2009.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Horatio awoke with a jump and peered blearily into the darkness, trying to re-orientate himself. He had no idea what had woken him, and after a few minutes of straining his eyes and ears into the dark and silent room he settled back down to sleep. Just a dream, he decided. He was just hovering on the edge when his eyes opened abruptly once more. Again, he had no idea what had woken him but something had dragged him away from sleep. He looked around the room and his gaze settled on the curtains over the window. Were they moving? He got up to check, floor-boards creaking with every hesitant step.

The curtains were indeed moving slightly, fluttering gently in the breeze that crept through the ill-fitting window frame. He checked the window - it was locked fast. As he checked the lock his attention was caught by a movement below his window. Was there someone down there? He leaned his forehead against the glass and looked down but all he could see were indistinct shadows. A sudden noise made him turn, but it was just someone moving down the corridor outside. He could hear their unsteady feet as they went into their own room, the groaning of the wood and the sharp click of the lock, too loud in the quiet night, telling him that his neighbour had closed their door and retired for the night.

He sighed with relief, then almost laughed at his own foolishness, jumping at noises in the dark. It was not like him to let his imagination run away with him like this; that sort of thing was much more the province of - he stopped himself. That was not a train of thought he would allow himself to pursue. He had simply let the fog and the moonlight get the better of him. He had obviously been listening to too many of Styles' paranoid superstitions. Nevertheless, he crossed the room hurriedly to check the lock on the door before retreating to his bed, which had grown cold.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, willing his mind into restfulness so he could get some much-needed sleep. But he was awake now, and his mind had its own ideas about what it wanted to do. He tried everything he could think of - trigonometry problems, conjugating Greek verbs,counting sheep - anything to keep his mind from the course he had inadvertently set it upon, the course it frequently attempted to travel despite his attempts to stop it. This time he succeeded, after a fashion, and, after much tossing and turning and punching the pillow, he fell into uneasy slumber.

He woke several times during the night as his mind sought a way to its favourite topic. Once he thought he saw a figure standing by the window, but he was asleep and dreaming again before he could register what he had seen. He dreamed of blue seas and bluer skies, of bright sunlight warming golden sands. He dreamed of sailing over the ocean, faster than he ever had before. The ship was strangely silent and it was a few moments before he realised that this was because there was no ship; there was nothing below his feet but deep, deep blue, waiting for him to fall into it. As the waves pulled him under he decided there was no better way to die, or to live. A golden sun shone in a clear blue sky above him and a familiar, beloved voice called his name.

Horatio was cold and wet when he woke for the final time; his sweat-soaked shirt clung to him and the chill air of the room raised goose-bumps on his skin. His legs felt trapped and he panicked for a moment before he realised that it was just the result of his restless night: the sheet had wrapped round him, twisted and knotted as his body tried to follow where his mind led.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to recall his dreams of the night before. This had become a habit of his. He had never bothered about them before, but now he felt a masochistic compulsion to examine them every morning, though he knew they held nothing that could bring him joy. He had dreamed about the ocean, as he often did these days, and about... other things. Things he wouldn't think about. And he had dreamed there was someone in the room with him, standing over him, speaking his name. Telling him it was alright, telling him not to worry. Telling him to smile more. It should have been comforting, but the grey pre-dawn light that struggled through the window, highlighting the cold, spartan room and its threadbare furnishings, was a bracing reminder that there was no comfort to be had.

He untangled the sheet from his legs and got out of bed. His body felt as stiff and sore as his mind as he walked towards the open window. He leaned against the frame and looked out at the waking town, or what little he could see of it if he craned his neck. There had been no point in (and no money for) a room with a view and so his window looked directly out onto the brick wall of the building across the alley. 'There might be a metaphor there, Horatio, if you chose to look for it'. The voice he heard so often in his head was so clear, it seemed to come from beside him. Horatio couldn't help himself; he turned to look. But the room was empty as always. Horatio was alone.

 


End file.
